The brothel breathed with a low hum that night, velvet-draped and candlelit, shadows thick with perfume and anticipation.
She had dressed for this—black silk clinging to her like a secret, a slit daring enough to flash the curve of her thigh when she moved. Her lips were painted deep, her hair loose and tumbling, the way her aunt might have taught her to look when she wanted to command a room without speaking.
But this wasn’t her aunt’s performance. This was hunger dressed in silk.
She descended the stairs slowly, each step measured, aware of the eyes that followed her. Some of the regulars sat scattered across the parlor: merchants, a noble’s bastard son, two soldiers on leave. They all stilled when they saw her. Not with polite recognition—but with something heavier. A magnetism she h
